Public Pay Back
by grannysknitting
Summary: sequel to public flash back - who is plaguing Sally Donovan with all this bad luck?


**Public Pay Back**

AN – sequel to public flash back

Sally dripped her way into the office and hung up her coat with a sigh. Her Oyster card hadn't topped up last night – she had it on a direct debit – which meant she'd had to walk from the bus that had dropped her off further away than usual. She could have used her warrant card and ignored the zone issues, but she hated it when cops abused the system like that and so did the DI. After her stuff up yesterday, she didn't need to give the man more ammunition.

How was she supposed to know that Watson was a head case? Alright, so she'd touched his bad shoulder – but as no one had known that he'd _had_ a bad shoulder that was hardly her fault. She'd just been annoyed that he'd been ignoring her: that was all. His manners were getting to be as bad as the Freaks', especially since they'd started shagging. Sally put no faith in the ring on the Freak's finger – Watson might mean it when he said he was married, but if the Freak knew what that really entailed she would be very surprised.

Making a mental note to check with her bank about the direct debit at lunch, Sally unlocked her desk drawer and pulled it open to retrieve her usual collection of pens and stationery. The Yard had a clean desk policy that meant you couldn't even leave a coffee cup out, which was annoying when you were in a hurry to leave for the night.

The entire contents of the drawer fell to the floor with a clatter, pens rolling everywhere, paperclips and other such paraphernalia bouncing across the floor in a bid for freedom.

"Bloody hell!" Sally swore. Several people glanced up but no one laughed, or offered to help, "Alright, whose idea was this? Is it April the 1st and no one told me?"

"It's March the 3rd," Dimmock said from his desk, then returned to stabbing at his keyboard with an annoyed expression on his face.

"Donovan, get that lot cleaned up before someone has an accident," Lestrade called from his doorway, turning to go back into his office without waiting for a response. Donovan glared around at the office in general and got down on her knees to start retrieving her drawer contents.

Things went downhill from there. Her chair sank under her with a dispirited hiss, as if someone had let all the gas out of the mechanism – she'd ended up practically with her knees about her ears. Someone had glued her mouse pad, mouse and keyboard down to the desk top. Once she got them free, her computer booted up and started displaying itself in Korean – or some Asian language, anyway. There was something sticky on her phone and ink on the earpiece, which she didn't discover until she called tech support to come and fix her computer – she had to go wash her ear and the side of her neck.

When Lestrade came out to see why she hadn't submitted her reports on the crime scene of yesterday, Sally listed her woes in an ever increasingly loud voice, ending with:

"It's the Freak, I'm telling you. He's trying to pay me back for yesterday's accident!"

"One," Lestrade held up a finger, "I know for a fact that Holmes has spent the night at John's side, trying to ease the muscle damage caused when you grabbed him yesterday, and two, in order for Holmes to have done this he'd have to care very deeply about John – which according to you is impossible. You can't have your cake and eat it too, Sergeant."

Sally flushed and glared mutinously at the floor. She knew the DI was a friend of Watson's and that he had a stupidly soft spot for the Freak as well. She'd seen him put his coat on Watson when the pair left the crime scene yesterday and as that same coat was hanging in his office now it wasn't a stretch to figure out that he'd been past Baker Street this morning to retrieve it.

"I need those reports, Sergeant," the DI continued in a grave tone, "Get to it, please."

The ink in her pens all vanished from the paper only minutes after she'd written on it: that is if they worked at all. She had to go down to supply and explain why she needed knew stationery. Once her computer was up and running it routed all her printing jobs to the records office in the basement, no matter how many times she changed the printer. At lunch, her sandwich had been salted so heavily she had to throw it away – salty strawberry jam was intolerable. The vending machine in the break room ate her money – but that was hardly unusual.

While she was at lunch her computer reset itself to Russian and her phone glued itself to its cradle. She spent ten minutes resupplying her desk with pens and whatnot, because the last lot she'd got had disappeared. The civilian in charge of such things gave her a dressing down that had a distinctly smug air to it and on her way back to her desk; Sally began to put two and two together.

The Freak was not well liked among her colleagues – and for good reason. He was hard to work with and more than a bit scary at times. However, since the arrival of Watson, it had been easier to have to work with the Freak, if only because Watson was willing to act as a go-between and translator. That meant that Watson was well appreciated by many members of the Yard. Some outright liked him – the DI did for one and Dimmock for another. In addition, Watson was a veteran: there was more than one member of the Yard who had served overseas, or had family who had.

It was entirely possible that the persecution she was experiencing came from her colleagues. There wouldn't be any way to prove this – they were all too well versed in getting around being detected – but perhaps she'd be able to call them off.

"Alright!" Sally announced, dropping her latest collection of (used – because the supply clerk didn't trust her with new) pens on her desk, "I'll apologise to Watson when I see him next! Just stop messing with my stuff!"

"Donovan, must you shout in the office?" the DI asked in a chiding voice, "We're not in a play ground, you know. Let's have some decorum, people."

His door shut behind him with a click and Sally scowled, sorting her new/old pens out and sitting on her chair. It sank beneath her weight with a tired hiss.

Fortunately, that was the last of the 'bad luck' for the day. Come home time, her Oyster card had even caught up with the direct debit. Sally spent the tube ride home rehearsing the apology she'd have to make – because if it wasn't good enough she'd be in for another round of 'bad luck'.

END

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.


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